


Their First Times

by Syrum



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Hallucinations, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4980256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint had a lot of first times with Pietro.  He had a lot without him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their First Times

**Author's Note:**

> This went a bit darker than intended.

The first time Clint saw Pietro, the kid was a nameless enemy, a threat. Not just to him, but to the Avengers and the world as a whole. He wanted to put an arrow in the guy more than he wanted to draw his next breath, but Pietro was simply too fast for that and the assassin could never get a clear shot. Then, without much warning, he wasn’t the enemy any more and Clint wasn’t sure what he should feel. 

The first time Clint fought alongside Pietro, it was thrilling, exhilarating, and he could see without really having to look that the kid had it in him to be one of them, to become an Avenger. He was annoying though, snarky and too quick to run into harm’s way, a smart comment on his tongue. That would have to be trained out of him, Clint thought - the vaguely suicidal tendencies, not the attitude. Clint liked that too much.

The first time Pietro kissed him, Clint hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t seen it coming. Shielded from view, the speedster had grabbed hold of his face and simply _kissed_ him, hard and without the time available to show any real skill, and he was off again. It was a distraction, for all of two minutes, and then Clint was being shot at again and he cursed the speed freak for throwing him off his game.

The first time Pietro saved his life, Clint felt as though he had died inside. Pietro was fast, faster than any other alive enhanced or not, but he wasn’t fast enough to outrun death. Clint had stood, frozen, as Pietro wobbled on his feet, sad smile upon his lips as the light in his eyes slowly died. Clint had wanted to reach out, to pull Pietro to him, to _save_ him, but the child in his arms cried on and clung to him and the archer had no strength left to reach out and touch that which he had lost.

The first time Clint dreamed of Pietro, it was sweet and pure. They were in the training room, Clint with his bow poised, shooting arrow after arrow and never once hitting his target. Pietro, laughter pouring from his lips, clear as a bell, raced after each one and brought it back to him before it could embed itself in the painted target. Clint had awoken with tears on his face, knowing that he would never again have the opportunity to stand alongside the man who saved his life.

The first time Clint saw Wanda after Pietro’s death, she could not bring herself to look at him. Refused to meet his eyes, and he could not find it in himself to blame her. She resented him for allowing Pietro to die. He knew, because he resented himself for it as well. If Pietro had simply left well enough alone, Clint would be dead and Wanda wouldn’t have to mourn so deeply. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to lose a sibling like that, much less a twin. Their bond was too deep, and he would not begrudge her the hatred he deserved.

The first time the nightmares came, Clint cried out in his sleep. They started as a replaying of that fateful day in Sokovia, bullets tearing through Pietro’s tender flesh, ripping him open, gradually worsening each night until he awoke screaming. His mind was producing new and ever more inventive ways to torture and kill Pietro, and Clint simply could not take it. He wept, alone in his bed, for a man he barely knew.

The first time Cap asked if he was alright, Clint had lied. He wasn’t, but he couldn’t admit to that. Skin sallow and eyes sunken behind dark circles, Steve hadn’t been convinced, insisting on a month-long rest period to ‘get back on his feet’. He didn’t know if a month would be long enough. Clint felt as though part of his chest had been torn out.

The first time Natasha asked how he was coping, he knew better than to lie. She could always see through his falsehoods, even if no one else could. She listened silently, nodding every now and then, never taking her eyes off him as he spilled every painful little thought about the loss he still felt so keenly. She did not offer words of wisdom, this was his cross to bear after all and she would not pretend to know his grief, merely offering a shoulder to cry on and that was enough.

The first time Clint visited Pietro’s grave, he could barely keep himself upright. Too many weeks of little food and less sleep had left him broken and weak. It had been raining, and the ground was slippery. That was the excuse he gave when his legs finally went from under him and he crashed to the floor, howling his internalised pain out to the empty night. Only Natasha would hear, only Natasha would see. He could handle that.

The first time Clint ate a full meal, at Tony’s insistence, he brought the whole thing back up again. Coughing into the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, Tony’s hand rubbing circles on his back, Clint felt a pang of guilt at the knowledge he had dragged his friends into his suffering as well. They were worried, he knew that, but there was no point in pretending he was fine. He did not want to pretend any more.

The first time Fury insisted that he had been given enough time to ‘get over’ his grief, Steve had argued his corner. Clint had merely remained silent and waited for Fury to either give in, or hand over his assignment. It had been the latter, and Clint barely read the files before he was sent out. He missed his target and earned two bullets to the shoulder and a burned leg for his trouble. Fury put him on an extended sabbatical after that.

The first time Clint saw Pietro again was six months after his death. Another nightmare, and Clint had awoken delirious, exhausted. Pietro had sat at the edge of his bed, mumbling something in that distinctive Sokovian lilt, soft fingers combing through his hair and lulling him back to sleep. He did not dream again after that.

The first time Clint smiled after Sokovia was on the shooting range, the memory of his dream playing out in his mind as Pietro leaned against the wall to his right, daring him to shoot faster than the speedster could run. He couldn’t, of course, Pietro was simply too fast. He outran death, he’d said, and Clint hadn’t questioned it. Pietro had raced for the arrows, but did not catch them, each one flitting harmlessly through his fingers and Clint had to retrieve them himself once his quiver was empty.

The first time the others saw them together, Clint was left confused by their reactions. It was breakfast, and Pietro had stolen half of his bagel. He didn’t understand why Bruce insisted that he’d only ever had half to begin with, or why Nat and Steve kept shooting him concerned, sympathetic glances. Pietro simply laughed, threw a smutty comment at him, and then left.

The first time he saw the padded room and the stark lighting of a cell that wasn’t his bedroom, Clint was afraid. They had said he was a danger to himself, that he might end up hurt or worse. He needed help, and this was the best place for him while he was evaluated. He was pleased when the straps on the bed were deemed unnecessary, and lay staring up at the ceiling in silence for the longest time. Still, Pietro had come with him, and he was so very thankful that he wasn’t entirely alone in that place.


End file.
